


all the best cowboys (have daddy-issues)

by HelenaKey



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Consensual Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Gotham City Police Department, Gun Violence, Guys I swear!, Italian Mafia, Italian-American Character, Kidnapping, Mobsters Action, Multi, Murder Mystery, Not the Godfather references intended, Power Battles, Stockholm Syndrome, This is not the Godfather, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a party hosted by the well-known gangster, Carmine Falcone, a group of men break into his house, causing chaos. By the end of the night, a scandalous murder falls to hands of Gotham Police Department, and every guest at the party full of mobsters becomes a suspect. Quickly, the attention falls to the minor gangster, Oswald Cobblepot, who having no real power or friends in the Alta Mafia of Gotham, turns out to be the perfect scapegoat. To prove his innocence and save his life, Oswald would have to rely on Jim Gordon, the only clean cop willing to face Don Falcone's people, and Victor Zsasz, a psychotic hitman who swore to take revenge on the real killers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in the roman's empire (everyone wants a favor)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecrownofthereveur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrownofthereveur/gifts).



Of the many events that took place in the first quarter of hour of the party, the one which had raised more excitement among the guests was, certainly, the capture of the family photo. When taking these pictures (an event that came about every year in Don Falcone's parties, and had already turned into an old family tradition) strict rules were always imposed. Everyone had to be present, without exception (on the contrary, the photo would not be taken) and they all had to be standing in the right place; where they could be seen well groomed, smiling and without a hair out of place. Whoever appeared in the picture had to be family strictly talking; not part of the family business, or "kind of family" or just "good friends". In more than one occasion, Johnny Viti, Falcone's nephew, had tried to make one of his conquests stand beside him while taking the picture; an imprudence that always aroused disagreement among his older relatives. He, obviously, had never succeeded. His uncle had made sure of that.

While the picture was been taken, the orchestra of Alberto Gigante was playing the closing stage of Apollo's Triumph, and the emcee was preparing to leave the floorboards and give his place to Lucio Britti, an Italian singer who had become very popular in recent times, and that when exhibited to the public attracted an uncontrolled horde of teenagers and young women, who tried to approach the stage to get a closer look. Without realizing, the excited women began to knock off stands and chairs, making the floorboards shake, and for a moment, panic was imminent among the guests. It was through the intervention of Carla Viti, Falcone's sister, who after a long time in the family business had become a woman with a rather strong character, and who had not been entirely surmounted by the respectable amount of Scottish that she had been drinking throughout the evening, that they managed to control the crowd. Without hesitation, she took the microphone to instruct the girls to go back to their seats or otherwise, Lucio Britti would leave and their scandal would be for nothing.

Most of the guests (especially the female guests) were most pleased when Lucio started to sing, yet, if you asked _Fish_ about it, she would say that the little, funny man hired to perform at Don Falcone's party was giving a rather decadent espectacle, to say the least. Sitting at her table, she sighed in frustration when the singer's detuned voice reached her ears. Don Maroni, who was sitting in one of the tables nearest to the stage and who, as regards alcohol consumption, didn't look as hot as he could, raised his glass towards her in a toast at distance while humming the song. She couldn't hear him, but probably his mother Abelia, who was sitting at his side, and the three bodyguards surrounding him, gripping tightly at their guns, could hear the odd melody just fine.

The hours had passed, the afternoon was turning into evening, and it had already become obvious to _Fish_ that this event would be, at the very least, unpleasant. The presence of children in the party had indeed turned the event into a boring one; the entertainment left much to be desired, and the guests were uninteresting. The only person she wanted to talk to at that time was Don Falcone, who was too busy tending to the heads of other families to even glimpse at her way. It was costumary; she knew by now, for people all over the country to arrive to Gotham whenever Don Falcone was offering a party; not moved by respect or friendship (as the most naïve family members seemed to think) but by interest. Everybody knew that in days of celebration, the _Roman_ felt in the mood to do favors for free. That normally consumed all his time, and as soon as _Fish_ saw the long line of people waiting to meet with the Don, she knew that she wouldn't be talking to him any time soon.

When one of the girls who had been shouting in the crowd came to stand on the stage and started singing with Lucio one of his bestselling hits, _Fish_ thought that it was qualitatively impossible for the evening to get any worse. Of course, until that damnable moment when she went out through the entrance door, at the end of the evening, and found a dead body at her feet, lying beside her silver Cadillac. But this, while sitting at her table, absently sipping from a cup of wine and looking at Lucio Britti with a look of contempt, _Fish_ couldn't have predicted. _Butch_ , who was sitting at her side, his arms crossed above his chest and his eyes surveying the whole lounge, couldn't have guessed it either.

“This is nonsense.” The man said, scratching the back of his neck. He was drinking from a glass of scotch and, just like _Fish_ , had barely moved from his seat since they arrived to the party. So far, he hadn't done much besides staring at the other guests (what they were doing, who they were talking to, how they were behaving) and looking away whenever they felt his gaze on them. These people were making him nervous. In fact, they whole party idea had him feeling very edgy.

“Alberto Gigante's Orchestra been overshadowed by a pretty man with dysphonia problems? Yes _,_ it is a tragedy.” _Fish_ responded, circling the rim of her cup with her index finger. “But what did you expect? They're teenagers. They don't know any better.” She took a large sip from the cup, finishing the drink, and placed it aside. She didn't bother to look at _Butch_ while she talked; her eyes were fixed in the singerboy performing in front of her and his unnerving smile.

“No, I'm not talking about that!” _Butch_ exclaimed, frowning at her way.

“What are you talking about, then?” She asked with a characteristic dry voice. Her fingernails were painted in a dark green color, and she was drumming them against the table, looking exasperated. _Fish_ was a woman with little patient.

"About this!” _Butch_ responded, gesturing at the party around them. “This people. This entertainment. This party. It's all just… wrong.” He said, seeming deeply incensed, for some reason. This time,  _Fish_ turned to look at the man she had come to think of as her right hand, showing more attention than before. “How can the Don arrange a party and invite the bosses of the Five Families in a situation like this one? I mean, look around you! You have tried to kill half of the people in this room, and the other half you've treated with death or worse. That doesn’t make you nervous?”

At hearing this, _Fish_ actually smiled. One of those strange smiles that appeared on her face whenever she explained to _Butch_ something that she thought to be obvious. “Don't be so paranoid, _Butch_. No one is going to attack me in the middle of a Don's party. Anyone with half a brain knows that if they enter this house with a gun, they would not get out alive.” She said, shaking her head, and sounding way too pleased with her words.

“I don't know, boss. I just have a bad feeling about this.” _Butch_ said, leaning against the back of his chair. “I think we shouldn't have come here.”

“We're here to make a statement, _Butch_.” _Fish_ raised one of her arms to call for a waiter, and ordered him to refill her cup. The boy, who had a bottle of wine at hand, did so and immediately retired. “I can't hide like a scarred mouse while all the other families are here, enjoying the party. It would make me look weak.” She said, tightening her grip on the cup of wine, and taking a large sip. _Butch_ eyed her for a few moments, and then signed.

“Whatever you say, boss.” He responded, focusing in surveying the room and staring at the guests once again. He had the feeling this was going to be a long night, and he was not wrong.

* * *

 

By mid-afternoon, two men were sitting alone in a small office, with a bottle of wine and two glasses full to the rim as their only company. There were no servants attending them; the gentlemen were very close, and they seemed to be talking about a very serious topic. One of them was short, of coarse and vulgar factions, and the boastful look of a man with little relevance looking to climb the social ladder. He was wearing a dark bronze colored vest, a red dress shirt and a black tie. His hands were large and rough, and covered with rings; he had a thick watch chain hanging from his pockets that he was patting against the table with patent satisfaction. His name was Tony Zucco, and he was one of the closest allies of the Falcone Family.

Don Falcone, the man sitting in front of him, had a more pleasing appearance; the appearance of a man of the world. The so obvious organization and housekeeping of his home, even in the middle of a party, indicated a comfortable if not opulent position.

“So I would have the matter.” Don Falcone said.

“I can't make business in this way. I really can't, _Roman_.” The other man said, raising his cup of wine between himself and the light coming out of the window.

“Well the fact is, Tony, that Johnny is an unusual boy. He is formal, honest and efficient. I can't just let you take him to Las Vegas. I need him here.”

“You mean he is honest for a gangster.” Tony responded well naturally, while refilling his cup. If Falcone was offended by his words, he didn't show it.

“No. I mean that Johnny is a good man. Formal, sensible and pious.” Falcone said, resting his elbows in the table and clasping his hands. “I trust him everything I have; my money, my properties, my business. He is the future of my family, Tony. I can't let you take him away.”

“The future of your family?” Tony asked, with a candid hand movement. He seemed surprised, and he remained silent for several seconds before daring to speak again. “Is it truth, then? He is going to be the new Don, when you retire?” He said, sounding wary. Falcone just looked at him for a moment, and then nodded.

Ever since Falcone's first born, Alberto, died, all the members of the family had been wondering who was going to take over their Don's place. Most of them thought that in the end, Jimmy Saviano would be the one; others had thought that Carla Vitti would take her older brother's place, and not so few had insinuated that _Fish_ Mooney would be fitting for the job. It seemed that in the end, all of them had been wrong. After all, in the middle of a situation as the one Gotham was enduring right know, who would trust the title of Don to such young, naïve boy, as Johnny Vitti? But he was Falcone's nephew; blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh. Somehow, it made sense to leave the Empire to him.

“I'm sure you understand that I can't sent Johnny away. Not in a moment like this one. And if you have any conscience, my old friend, you will insist no more on this matter.” Falcone said, leaning against the back of his seat.

“Well, I have as much of a conscience as any business men like us.” The gentleman said, humorous. “And I am willing to do almost anything to please my friends. So, no... I wouldn’t ask you to sent Johnny to Las Vegas again.” He promised, serving more wine on his cup, that was already half empty.

“What would we do, then?” Don Falcone asked, after an awkward pause.

“Well, I still need help in my business, _Roman_. So, unless you want to lose your power in Nevada, you'll have to send someone else.” Tony said, as if it was something that should have been obvious. Falcone signed softly, then, already dreading how this conversation was going to end.

In that moment, the door was opened softly and a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, entered the room. She had dark, expressive eyes with long lashes and curly brown hair. Her skin showed a light blush on the cheeks that was darkened when she noticed the bold look of admiration that the stranger was throwing at her way. Her dress clung to her body perfectly, and her hand and feet were noticeable small. All these little detail didn't escape Tony's keen eyes, for he was used to assess at a glance the advantages of a good female specimen.

“Liza. You wanted something?” Don Falcone asked when she stopped in front of the table, looking at him with hesitation.

“I thought you were already at the party. I came to clean the table.” She responded, clasping her hands together.

“Feel free to do so, then.” He responded, smiling. Liza did so immediately, and hurried to leave the room. She didn't like to feel the gaze of Tony Zucco on her.

“My Good Lord!” Tony said with enthusiasm, adjusting his tie. “Isn't that a beautiful women? You could get rich in Las Vegas with that girl. I've seem men pay good cash for less than that.”

“I don't want to get rich with her.” Falcone said with a dry voice, and as if looking to change the subject, uncorked another bottle of wine and asked the opinion of his companion about it.

“Excellent, _Roman!_ One of the best I've had in some time.” Tony said, turning around to pat Falcone's shoulders. “Come on, what do you say about the girl? How much to you want for her?”

“Liza is not for sale.” The Don responded; harshly this time, and gripping tightly at his cup of wine. When Tony tried to talk again, he let his fits fall hardly against the wooden table and stood from his chair. “I've told you she is not for sale. I would talk no more about the matter.” He exclaimed, somehow managing to keep his voice calm.

“Alright, alright.” The man swallowed hard, and seemed to sink in his seat. “We would talk no more about it.” Tony said, as if trying to appease him. The Don adjusted his tie, and quickly came back to seat in front of him, as if nothing had happened. He smiled then; a quick, nasty curve of the lips, that for the first time since Tony meet him, looked genuinely fake.

“I'll make Doman go with you to Las Vegas. It should be good enough. He has experience in the gambling business.” He said, refilling his cup of wine, and taking a large sip. Tony nodded immediately, and hurried to leave the Don's office as soon as he saw the opportunity.

* * *

 

In the parking lot there were exclusive areas for the use of the guests, who would be guided to the parts of the house were the floorboard, the filed mesons and the dance floor were placed. The entrance of the party was guarded by Victor Zsasz, along with other well-known bodyguards of Carmine Falcone; it was their duty to stop anyone who had not been invited from entering the house, especially the way too curious cops (or detectives) who wanted to poke their noses were they shouldn't. In fact, Victor had to deal with them earlier that day, when he noticed Detective Allen and Montoya's patrol parked in the driveway, and not without a little hustle, he had forced them to live. They would still linger in the surroundings, he knew, but he would first have them away from the party rather than close.

Oswald Cobblepot, who had wanted to take the opportunity presented by this rather crowded party to inform his latest discoveries concerning Don Maroni, was there too. The presence of Zsasz, who hadn't considered letting him pass for even a second, made this impossible, and Oswald had to wait for at least two hours until the old Don had the decency to give his bodyguard a call and a clear order to allow him entry. It made him feel wronged, this sort of treatment, but he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut and smile widely at the man as he entered the party.

Despite all this small, but significant troubles, the coexistence in the party had been very peaceful, having in count the type of resentments that during the last times had been growing between some of the guests. Oswald had the intention to pass unnoticed through the lounge, find Don Falcone, and have a quick talk in his office or maybe in the parking lot. He didn't even had the time to enter it, however, for Don Maroni spotted him in the middle of the crowd, and started to walk towards him. For the briefest of moments, Oswald actually felt scared; even dreadful, thinking that after all the work he had done his deception would be discovered for such a stupid thing as showing up in the wrong party. He had nothing to worry about, he found out later, when an obviously drunk Maroni put his arm around his shoulders in an almost friendly way, and placed a drink on his hand with a strange smile.

“Stop looking so grim, _Penguin!_ Come, have a drink!” He had told him, dragging him along to the bar, to Oswald's dismay. “But take it easy, eh? You don't want to get wasted in front of all these important people.” He advised him, and Oswald had to refrain himself from commenting anything about it. It turned out that Maroni was so drunk at the moment that, at seeing the _Penguin_ in Falcone's party, he could only come to the conclusion that if he was there, it was because he had invited him to come along. He had surely forgotten; just as he had forgotten his mother Abelia, who was currently sitting in their table, looking with bemused eyes at Lucio Britti and feeling abandoned.

* * *

 

On the stage, Lucio Britti was performing his latest hits, sparking frenzy among the couples that had took over the dance floor. The hum of voices and laughter was almost exceeding the loudspeakers. The wind was blowing from the southwest and getting in burst through the awnings, making them shake, and the guests began to fear that one of those unusual nighttime storms that always carried so many drawbacks would ruin their night.

At the moment, _Fish_ was on the dance floor too, one arm resting over _Butch's_ right shoulder, and the other stretched forward, clasping his hand. His partner was not very good at dancing, she knew; but after spending so much time sitting in the same place, her legs had begun to fall asleep, and she much preferred to get rid of that strange numbing feeling by dancing rather than walk around the room for no apparent reason. _Butch_ , far from concerned by a physical ailment, was distracted looking at the gardens. Several times he thought that he saw people half hidden in the bushes, spying on the guests. The phenomenon had already been repeated four times, and was starting to make him nervous. Was he really seeing that? Or was _Fish_ right, and his concerns were finally driving him to paranoia?

The fifth time that it happened, _Butch_ and _Fish_ were exactly in the middle of the dance floor, and he had to run a special exercise of good will to not get separated from his partner and go in search of the unknown men who, he was certain, were circling the house. He was so distracted that he accidentally stepped on _Fish_ , and got to hear an exasperated sound coming out of her mouth.

That night she was in a particular bad mood, which had just worsened as time passed by; apparently, Don Falcone had left the party an hour ago to go outside and have a conversation with a small, funny looking man that had appeared at the entrance of the house requesting to talk to him. She had no idea who this man could be, but the fact that Falcone had been willing to meet him during the party while she had been plainly ignored the whole evening made her feel angry. As if this were not enough (misfortunes always come in lots, _Fish_ thought with contempt as _Butch_ stepped on her foot once again) shortly after the event came to an end, it started to rain. _Butch_ realized that, in the light of this, his boss' mood would not get any better, and he made a mental note to concentrate on dancing better and stop pissing her off.

* * *

 

It would be a lie to say that when the lightening came, and the first thunder was heard, Oswald didn't jump in surprise, feeling startled; however, what made him feel more dreadful was not the loud sound, but how unexpectedly the rain began to fall. The incident happened while he had been talking with Falcone in front the Don's residence, where his guests had left their cars parked. He informed him about Maroni's latest moves, and his not so recent interest in taking a spotlight in the drugs business. Disoriented by the sudden darkness around him (for the blackout had occurred not only in the house, but also in its nearest surroundings) he extended his hand to place it against the small three whose silhouette he glimpsed in the darkness. He could still see Don Falcone standing at his side, but in this darkness he couldn't see much more than that. He couldn't hear any other sound besides the one that came with the rain and the wind.

He passed his hand over his head and touched his hair; it was already wet. The sudden glow of lightning followed by the crush of thunder made him jump again. The lightning and thunder had been almost simultaneous, so he guessed that the storm was threatening to offer an extended visit. What was happening in the party? he wondered. It was this just an accident, or someone had provoked the blackout? Oswald couldn’t tell, but he was not going to risk it. He reached down to get a grip on his gun, and turned to survey how little he could see of the street. Beside him, Don Falcone was merely looking up at the sky, seeming pensive.

Oswald felt how the cold reached his bones, and shivered. It might be appropriate to leave the gardens and seek a safer refuge, he considered. For a moment, he thought he heard voices in the distance, coming from the place where the entrance of the house should be. Then, only the roar of the storm. He pulled the gun out of his pocket, pointing it towards the ground, and tried to isolate the confused sound of voices he had begun to hear even before the blackout. The next lightning, and the thunder that followed it, made him jump in a third occasion. This time, it came with something else. A stronger sound, almost like an explosion, which made Oswald feel as if his heart had stopped beating, if only for a moment. He knew what it was, for he was used to it; anyone affiliated with the mafia didn't take long to learn how a gun sounds when fired.

It was then, when it happened. Oswald, already feeling dreadful, turned around to see Don Falcone falling. It was something fast, so unexpected that it barely seemed real. Without thinking, he came to kneel beside the man, gun still at hand, and looked at the deep, gushing wound that the bullet had left in the center of his chest. He was dead, Oswald knew, even before he got to see Falcone's unexpressive blue eyes, and the trail of red blood falling from his lips. He covered his mouth, struggling not to make a sound, and looked around him, expecting to get shot at in the same way his Don had been.

Nothing happened. The rain kept falling down on him, and Oswald shivered.

* * *

 

When _Fish_ Mooney came to stand behind her silver Cadillac, and the light of the lamp post swept the dark pavement under her feet, she saw for the first time the lifeless body of Don Carmine Falcone. He was lying on his back; his left cheek and part of his mouth were pressed against the floor, and short strands of damp hair were covering his face. In his pallor, the man looked like a huge wax doll; dislocated, abandoned on the sidewalk in front of his own house, left to slowly melt in the heat of the night. There was a thick smear of blood covering his chest, and even at that distance it was possible to see the black and sepia spots that covered his white dress shirt, and the skin of his shoulders and neck. Before the dead man, the _Penguin_ was standing, looking tidy and intact, so that the dark silhouette of the Don, arched over the pavement, seemed the only detail out of place.

If _Fish_ had been in any other place, with any other person, she might have hesitated at the moment of raising her gun. Amid the cries, and the movement and the chaos that the blackout had aroused inside the house, it would have been impossible to determinate who had attacked her Don, even when the stunned face and the twitching hands of the boy before her would have, indeed, given room to suspicion. This time, however, there could be no mistake. The pistol on his hand, and the splashes of blood on his face said it all; Oswald Cobblepot, the boy she had always deemed as a nobody, an unimportant chess piece when looking at the bigger picture, had shoot down the most powerful man in Gotham City. 

 _Fish's_ first reaction was to take the small weapon she always kept under her skirt, tied to her right leg, and aimed it right at the boy's forehead: strange as it may sound, if the _Penguin_ had dared to shoot a Don during a social party, right in front of his own house, he would probably not hesitate in shooting her. However, even before she got to remove the safety catch, Oswald raised his gun at her way, probably guessing what she had been thinking. He didn't look confident as he did it; his hands were still twitching and he was nervously licking his lips, but he took a step forwards, and did his best to not back off.

Later, when the major crime detectives arrived at the scene, deprived them from their weapons, and rode them to the police station, the tension in Oswald's body would dissipate and give room to that calm and depressive air that usually follows tragedies. Then, the boy would say that the initial impression that had struck him when he took hold of the gun had been an uncomfortable feeling of unfolding; as if he were contemplating his own movements, slowed down by stupor and amazement, from a remote corner of his own mind. What followed, however, was even more difficult to explain.

 _Fish_ screamed before or after she rushed over to Falcone's body to check whether he was alive or dead? Had he told her that he was innocent? That he hadn't been the one to shoot? Or he had stayed silent, thinking that she wouldn't believe him? The truth is that for a moment, none of them did anything; for a moment they remained motionless, looking at each other; Oswald standing on his feet, holding his pistol tightly, and _Fish_ kneeling on the floor, barely touching the nine-millimeter gun hidden in Falcone's jacket, waiting, with anxiety, the smallest signal that one of them was going to open fire. The confusing sound of police sirens, and the voices of Detective Montoya and Detective Allen ordering them to lay down their weapons, was what finally got them out of their stupor and allowed them to turn around and hold up their hands.

Around them, they could hear the muffled sounds of the night; the police sirens surrounding the house, and the movement of the not so few gunmen that now that the electrical energy had been restored began to move through the wide gardens; whose paths served as alternate escape routes for the poor bastards who had shut down the energy and ruined their Don's party. Besides _Fish_ and the _Penguin_ , nobody knew about Falcone's death until the next morning, when it was announced in the newspapers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is my first work in this fandom so... I'm not sure if this came out well or wrong. It took me two weeks to write it so... at least I can say I tried! D:
> 
> Jokes aside. I hope you liked the chapter and if you did, please leave feedback! ;D


	2. and so, serpico comes in

Detective Montoya signed loudly, and leaned against the back of her seat, trying to get herself comfortable. It was two o'clock in the morning (that's what her wrist clock was marking, at least) and she still hadn't had the time to get a proper sleep. As long as she and Allen had heard that Don Falcone was throwing a party in the outskirts of the city, and that the Five Families of Gotham had been invited, they had begun to plan their moves with weeks of anticipation. At the beginning, they had intended to use microphones and, if they were lucky, nano cameras; they did have the technology, but they couldn't find anyone who would dare enter the party wearing them. These days, minor criminals feared more the Five Families than they feared the police, and they weren't willing to defy them just for a few filthy bucks, or even for a deal with the prosecutor. It had been a while since they had gotten their hands on a good snitch.

For some reason, that made Montoya look up from the road and at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Oswald Cobblepot's face; still covered in blood, twitching slightly for the nerves. That morning, she and Allen had driven to one of the many houses that Don Falcone possessed, since they knew for a good source that the party was going to take place there. Knowing that they couldn't do much more than that, but not wanting to sit idle in their desks while this opportunity slipped from their fingers, they resigned themselves to observe from afar, hoping not to be spotted. They knew it would be dangerous (it was always dangerous whenever the Five Families were concerned) but they hadn't been overly worried about it. Falcone was not known for killing cops, unless the situation got dire. It was disappointing when Zsasz found them and forced them to leave, but they had known that would happen sooner or later. However, what had happened next, when everything went dark and a gunshot rang loudly through the night… none of them could have predicted it.

“I still can't believe you did it.” She said, not taking her eyes off the rearview mirror. The comment, more than anything, earned her a weary glare from her passenger. For a moment, Montoya saw Allen's patrol some meters ahead of hers, driving in the night, and wished his partner was there with her. Unlike her, who was used to fieldwork more than anything else, he did know how to make people talk. She was aware, however, that get separated had been for the best. They couldn't keep the _Penguin_ and _Fish_ together in the same car; not after what had happened.

“So, that's it?” She tried again, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. “You are not going to say anything? Not even try to defend yourself?” Normally, when Montoya had young men sitting in the back of her patrol, they were all confused and trembling and mumbling nonsense about their innocence. This one was different. He knew better than to open his mouth and defend himself before someone who obviously couldn't help him, so his lips remained tightly shout. He _was_ nervous, she could tell, and he was scared; but not of her or of the prospect of being locked in. Minor criminals feared more the Five Families than they feared the police, and Montoya could understand why.

Once again, Cobblepot remained silent, choosing to look through the window and beyond the road instead of meeting the Detective's gaze. The blood on his face was slowly fading away, leaving only tiny drops of a rust liquid across his right cheek and neck. He seemed bothered by her questioning, and if it had been anyone else sitting in the back seat glaring at her way, Montoya might have been prompted to stop poking at her passenger and stay silent as well. But this was Oswald Cobblepot, who looked more like a child than a man when he was angry; who pouted more than snarled, who giggled more than laughed, and she couldn't bring herself to be scared by that. He could be dangerous, she knew, but in the outside, in the surface, Cobblepot looked harmless. Maybe even helpless.

“Forgive my rudeness, detective.” He finally spoke; cutting her off when she tried to, once again, ask for an answer. “But in this sort of situations, I _do_ have the right to remain silent.” He reminded her, not even glancing at her way. He only sank deeper into the seat, as if trying to escape her prying eyes, and kept glancing out of the window. Montoya actually huffed out a laugh at hearing that, born out of surprise more than amusement. It had been a while since anyone had even mentioned civil rights in her presence, and she didn't know whether she should feel pleased or annoyed by it.

“Alright. Have it your way.” She said dismissingly, slightly pursing her lips. Once again, Montoya wished Allen was there. Maybe, he wouldn't have been able of making Cobblepot talk, but at least he would have made her company. After all, Don Falcone's party hadn't taken place anywhere near the downtown, where the Police Station was located, and they still had a long road to travel. She needed something to get distracted; to forget for a moment the chaos that was going to erupt in the Station, in the Major's office, and probably in the whole city, when the not so discreet reporters of _Daily Planet_ heard what had happened that night. Things weren't going to be the same in Gotham, she knew, and just thinking about that made her anxious.

For the fourth time that night, Montoya had to park the patrol when cars in front hers stopped; the traffic was getting thicker as the hours went by and it was making the road to the Police Station way longer than it should have been. Gotham was a city that at late hours was always vibrating with energy, and she knew that once the cars full of drunken teenagers, half dressed women and young men in dope began to disappear, they would only be replaced by more small, almost dull vehicles carrying people to their works. It was going to be a long night, she knew, and probably an even longest morning.

This time, when she glanced up at the rearview mirror, Cobblepot was the one who was staring at her. For a moment, the only thing she did was stare back. His nose was pink, she noticed (maybe for the cold), and strangely large; his eyes were clear and sunken, and he was sickly pale. He had funny ears and even funnier hair; dark, grassy and short. Even know, his black and white suit was perfectly arranged. Montoya remembered that time, when Oswald called a meeting to give her information about _Fish_ Mooney and her place in Mario Pepper's death. He had been wearing sunglasses and a large coat, in a poor attempt to not been recognized when he got inside a police's patrol. He had looked like a boy, then; an overconfident boy with strangely cruel eyes and a great gift for lying, but only a boy. Suddenly, she found it hard to believe that in a party full of mobsters and well known criminals, he had been the one to end with Don Falcone's life.

“You didn't do it, did you?” She finally asked, and could easily see how, at hearing the question, his eyes started to twitch again. Cobblepot seemed to doubt for a moment, but in the end decided to speak.

“No. I didn't do it.” He responded simply, but firmly. Montoya allowed herself to look at him again, just for a few seconds, and then glanced back at the road. The traffic was finally yielding, so she stepped on the accelerator and the patrol started to move again. Her wristwatch now was marking three o'clock, and she was beginning to lose her patience.

“Then who did it?” She asked, not taking her eyes off the road. For several moments, no answer came, and Montoya supposed that Cobblepot was considering whenever to respond or not. She contented herself with the thought that, if the boy decided not to answer anything, then his silence would be telling enough. She adjusted the rearview so she could not look at Cobblepot anymore, and once again, drummed her fingers against the steering wheel.

“I don't know.” He said after a while.

“You don't know?” Montoya repeated, incredulous. “You were standing right next to him. How can you not know?” She asked, resisting the urge to turn around to look straight at Oswald's disturbingly clear eyes. Instead, she gripped tightly at the steering wheel, and kept looking straight ahead.

“ _I don't know.”_ Cobblepot insisted in a low voice, sinking deeply into his seat. Suddenly, something in his posture, in his expression, changed; but focused on the road as she was, Montoya didn't notice. The snarl that looked more like a pout disappeared from his face, and was replaced by a carefully blank expression. Cobblepot knew that his pity act rarely worked on women (he knew it _never_ worked on Montoya), but there were other ways (more subtle ways) to gain this sort of people. “It was dark. The shoot came from afar. I don't know who did it but it wasn't me.” He said, and while his voice didn't tremble and his eyes weren't watery (unlike the not so few occasion in which he had looked for Don Falcone's, Don Maroni's or Jim Gordon's pity) it sounded just as convincing. Maybe because for once, he was actually telling the truth.

The Detective licked her lips, feeling them suddenly too dry, and remained silent for a while. Montoya knew Oswald Cobblepot was dangerous but she wanted to think that he wasn't a killer. Not yet. She also was convinced that if this boy ever killed someone he wouldn't be so careless. So predictable. She brushed off the few trends of black hair that were blocking her view, and wondered what Allen would say in a moment like this one; what tactic he would use. The only tactic Montoya knew when talking to a criminal (when talking to anyone) was honesty, and she guessed that would have to serve.

“…You're my first and only suspect, Cobblepot.” She decided to say, adopting a rather hard voice, and an expression just as blank as Oswald's. “Innocent or not, if you don't give me a name, I'll have to look you up. I just won't have a choice.”

At hearing this, Oswald actually smiled. It was a rather strange gesture, full of condescension, that reminded Montoya of the one he had given them when Allen asked him why, knowing all the risks he was taking, he would betray _Fish_ Mooney so easily. Many years ago, when Oswald was only a kid, and Montoya was still in the Police Academy, she had learned that this was one of the many expressions that appeared in Cobblepot's face whenever he was lying, or just withholding information. “I can't give you a name, Detective. I didn't saw anything.” He said with an impish voice.

“… Are you sure?” Montoya arched an eyebrow, not feeling all that eager to believe him. There was a warning in her voice, Cobblepot realized; as if she was giving him one last chance to make the right choice and tell the truth. He didn't know what to do with that, for he had long ago forgotten how to dwell on bare truths, so he decided to ignore it.

“Yes, I am.” He said, earning him a tired sigh from the Detective, and a few more minutes of silence. He looked outside the window, and realized that they were already in the downtown of the city, close to the Police Station. That meant that he was running out of time, and he knew that if he was ever going to make his move, he had to do it now. So he stayed silent, once again feeling the burn of Montoya's gaze over him, and tried his best to seem pensive; as if he was thinking very carefully what he was going to do next. A mere pretence, obviously, since Cobblepot had known exactly what he was going to do almost 20 minutes after they had left Falcone's party.

“I can't give you a name, Montoya, but there _is_ something I can tell you.” He said after a while; slowly, almost gropingly, for he knew this was a seed that had to be planted carefully. “Before he was murdered, Don Falcone had been talking about retirement.” Once he was convinced that he had Montoya's full attention, he licked his lips in a nervous manner, and sank deeply into his seat, hoping to look irresolute. He made a pause before continuing. “Things between the Five Families have been… _delicate_ as of late, and no one knew who was going to take his place. Almost everyone of importance in the Falcone Family wanted to be the next Don, and I have no doubt they would have _killed_ for it.”

“You mean… his Family betrayed him?” Montoya asked, frowning. Even in Gotham, a Don been betrayed by his own people was a strange incident; not unheard of but, indeed, strange. She had to wonder what would motivate someone to kill a Don that had been so feared, not only in the criminal world, but in the political as well. It seemed a move way too risky for her.

“I mean, that there were plenty of people who had far better reasons to kill Falcone, and last night they were all present in the same party.” Oswald said, leaning against the back of his seat. “If it's a suspect what you want, Detective, I suggest you start looking on the guest list.” Cobblepot told her, meeting her gaze in the review mirror without flinching, and something in his voice, in his eyes, in his whole sickly being, made her shiver. Montoya wanted to ask more; get more into detail, get names and statements and addresses, but they were already in front of the Police Station, and two young policemen were opening the doors, getting Cobblepot out of the car to put him in the holding cells.

* * *

 

The phone call didn't came until shortly before twelve o'clock, and at that time Detective James Gordon was sitting on the couch of his living room, holding tightly the 44 Magnum that he always kept on his waistband. Barbara was alone in their room, sleeping. Jim had already made the last visit of the night, when he would peek his head through the bedroom door, letting in the pale light of the hall, only to stare at the illuminated face of his fiancé. Her breathing would be quiet, and she would have no nightmares. After making sure she was alright (she usually was), Jim would turn around and sit on the couch again, where he had been spending his nights during the last two weeks.

Things between them had been odd lately, ever since what happened with Falcone and Victor Zsasz, but that wasn't the only reason why they weren't sleeping together. Every time Jim lay on that bed (that bed that was too soft, too comfortable for his taste) he would do so wide awake, finding his muscles too tense, his mind too busy to fall asleep. He felt unsafe, vulnerable, perhaps even lazy. But when he was sitting on the couch, with his 44 Magnum at hand, and with his eyes fixed on the entrance door… it was easier to fall asleep, then. It was as if overnight all the evils that his circumstances had created became more real, more painful, every passing day more difficult to ignore. A time that should have been dedicated to rest and recovery had been filled with worry, uncertainty and fear.

That one had been a good night, despite all. Everything had seemed fairly normal, until Jim stood up to walk silently to the bathroom, and heard the phone in the kitchen ring. He looked at the clock as he hurried to answer. Too late to be anything but trouble, he thought: and yet he picked up the phone and answered the call. It was a night agent, calling from the emergency section in the Police Station, and he sounded agitated. “Detective Gordon?” He asked, clearing his throat. “Sorry to bother you at this hour, but I have this… funny looking man in the holding cells, asking for you. He wouldn't give me his name, but he says he's your friend and that he needs you to come by… He says it's an emergency.”

Jim didn't have to think twice to know of whom this man was talking about. In the back of his head he wondered in what kind of trouble Cobblepot had gotten himself into this time, and how much it would end up costing him. But this was something very unprofessional to say on the phone, while talking to a colleague, so Jim stayed silent and continued listening to the information that the agent was giving him. Trouble, he'll think later (when he'll be sitting in the back of a taxi, heading to the Police Station with a copy of the _Daily Planet_ that covered the exclusive of Don Falcone's death and the suspects of his murder) was a rather small word for the situation he was facing. Just an insensitive way to conceal a number of fears and worries concerning the near future of Oswald Cobblepot.

"I'll be there in a moment." Jim said, before hanging up.

Then, he returned to the bathroom, where he cleaned his face and hastily brushed his hair. Despite the time he wanted to look presentable, well dressed, and exceptionally capable to face the world of hopeless panic in which he was about to descend. Jim _was_ living in Gotham, after all.

* * *

 

When Jim arrived to the Police Station, it was long after midnight, and the first lights of the morning were beginning to appear in Gotham's rainy sky. Normally, at this hour there was little activity in the building; besides him, the only personal present used to be the agents who answered the phone for emergencies, and a couple of cops in their night shift. This time it was different. The whole place was vibrating with energy. Agents were running around carrying boxes filled with paperwork; all phones were busy and ringing with holding calls, their tiny red lights shining in the precinct; detectives were screaming at cops and cops were screaming at attendees. Chaos was imminent, and it was obvious why. The _Daily Planet'_ s cover of the morning had done little in the matter of informing people, but it made the best in making them panic.

He walked towards his desk, hoping to find answers in the giant pill of paperwork that had been left beside his phone, but before he had the chance to give five steps forwards, Harvey was in front of him, blocking his way. He looked disheveled, as always; both sides of his shirt were stained with sweat and he was holding a cup of coffee in his right hand. Jim tried not to grimace when he caught the dull smell of alcohol emanating from him.  

“So, I guess you already know.” He said, sitting on the edge of Jim's desk and taking a short sip from his coffee. Jim walked past him and sat on his chair, taking one of the archives in front of him and opening it. He didn't have time for Harvey's teasing, especially in a moment like this one.

“Know what?” He asked distractedly, flipping through the file's pages.

“Our friend Falcone got himself killed last night.” Harvey responded, and then gestured to the whole precinct. “What did you think was this fuss all about?”

“Yes, I figured.” At this Jim paused, and closed the file. Maybe he wouldn't have to search for answers in the files; one of the only advantages of been Harvey Bullock's partner was that, at the time of looking for information, he spilled the beans without even realizing. He leaned against the back of his chair, holding his ballpoint with both hands. “Want to tell me what you know about it?”

“Hey, don't ask me.” Harvey shrugged, placing his cup of coffee over the pile of paperwork, to Jim's dismay. “I just know what it's written in the newspaper.” He said, wiping the warm coffee off his lips with the sleeves of his coat. He reached out to his own desk then, not actually standing, taking a crumbled newspaper and handing it to Jim. It was one of the copies that the _Daily Planet_ had released that morning; the cover was composed by a big photo of Don Falcone's body, and other two tinier pictures of _Fish_ Mooney and, a so called, unknown suspect.

“Yeah, sure…” Jim responded, finding himself staring at the small, blurry picture of Oswald Cobblepot. He was wearing sunglasses, and the neck of his large coat was covering his face, so it was difficult to recognize him. Jim decided that this was a good thing. “You know where he is?” He asked, putting down the newspaper.

“Where's who?” Harvey finally stood up from his desk, and came to sit on his respective chair. He had obviously been busy while Jim wasn't there; if his frame soaked in sweat and the poorly arranged paperwork in his own desk was anything to go by. It was pretty out of character for Harvey to work so hard in this “burocratic bullshit” as he always called it, but again, everyone in the precinct where working strangely hard that morning. It was kind of depressing, Jim thought, that a great mobster's dead was the only thing that could make people at the GCPD actually work during their shifts.

“You know who. Where's Cobblepot?” He asked again, crossing his arms over his chest. Harvey looked up at him then; he was wearing glasses now, so he'll be capable to read what he was signing.

“Ah… he's over there.” He said, sounding as thought he didn't have a care in the world as he gestured towards the interrogation room. Jim followed his finger and actually frowned. Normally, criminals went straight to the holding cells, not to that dark, tiny room, that cops used exclusively to beat the shit out of their suspects, and sometimes witnesses.

“He's been questioned?” Jim asked, wrinkling his nose.

“No. It's just for precaution.” Harvey responded, looking down again and adjusting his glasses. He was lifting thought the file that held the pictures of the crime scene, examining them further; but there was not much information besides that. It was still very early in the morning, so it wasn't exactly the time to be knocking in random doors, looking for witnesses.

“Precaution?” Jim repeated, frowning even more.

“Yeah, precaution.” Once again, Harvey gestured to the other corner of the room, this time pointing at the holding cells. They were full already, despite the hours, and Jim couldn't help but think that this was due to Don Falcone's sudden dead. The city must be a mess, he mused, just like the precinct. He also realized that probably, most of the men in the cells were somehow linked to the old Don, and probably wouldn't give Oswald a good welcome, if he was locked with them. He quickly decided that it was for the best.

He let go of the ballpoint he had been holding, tossing it to his desk, and rubbed his forehead with his right hand. “Who arrested him, anyway?” He asked in a harsh voice, feeling frustration rising up his chest. He knew that if Cobblepot had committed a crime of this proportion (because, Jim was convinced, murder was indeed the worst type of crime) arrest him was the right thing to do. Even so, his relation to the man wasn't a secret to the police; during the past few weeks Cobblepot had been giving him information about two of the most important Families of Gotham, and if this new Intel ever warranted a trial, Jim had the right papers to prove it. In any case, the most professional thing to do would have been calling him; but as always, no one in the GCPD was interested in being professional.

“Montoya and Allen did.” Harvey told him, looking more interested in the paperwork before him than in the ongoing conversation with his partner. For some reason, Jim wasn't surprised by the answer; however, the mere mention of Montoya made something inside him snap.

”Well, they shouldn't have!” He practically screamed, slamming his hand against the wood of his desk. Harvey's cup of coffee, that had been peacefully resting on top of his desk, was actually lifted in the air, spilling some of its contents around the poor man's paperwork. This, it seemed, finally gained him his partner's full attention, for the man decided to look up to glare at his way.

“Hey, keep it cool, Jimbo!” He protested, lifting the cup from his desk to save the various documents he had carelessly spread over his working place. He took off his glasses then, and placed the manila folder he had been eyeing for a while back in its drawer. “What's the matter with you? Why so fussy all of a sudden?” He asked, in a more serious voice.

“He's my snitch!” Jim answered, getting closer to Harvey and lowering his voice in a dangerous degree. His tiny brown eyes, normally calm but determinate, looked strangely angry. “They _can't_ arrest him. I need him to solve my cases.” He said, wondering if, perhaps, this one card could help him to fix things up. Jim knew how a relationship between a police officer and a snitch was supposed to work; he knew that Cobblepot had done his part by giving him information during all these weeks, and that now it was his time to pay him back.

“Wow, wow. Slow down.” Harvey said, frowning and gesturing him to stop. “Since when do you have snitches?” He asked, and he seemed truly intrigued by the question, if how his jaw had dropped and the way his eyes had narrowed were anything to go by. Jim tried to remain calm at this reaction, crossing his arms above his chest and leaning against the back of his chair. There was something that sounded accusatory in Harvey's voice, enraged even, and although it unnerved him, Jim couldn't bring himself to feel surprised. After all those speeches about honor and goodwill that he had given, this did seemed quite hypocrite.

When Cobblepot started to give him information about Maroni's and Falcone's moves, Jim had endured a long and difficult inner struggle, for he realized that without meaning to, he had entered the program. At some point, however, Cobblepot made it clear that he expected no pay back from Jim. _I'm the one paying you back,_ he had said, with that unnerving smile of his that always made him feel uncomfortable, _not the other way around;_ and even thought Jim knew he was lying, his words somehow made him feel better. For once, those words meant that Cobblepot would not be asking favors from him any time soon; they also meant, however, that in this sort of situations Jim had to help him without been asked to; unless he wanted to lose his snitch and all the information that usually came with him.

“I don't have _snitches_.” Jim clarified, using a rather harsh voice in the last word. “I just got one, and Montoya got him arrested!” He said, and this time he actually had to fight to keep from screaming out; his voice came out wrong, restrained, full of a hatred that he didn't knew was dwelling inside him. Jim knew that when it came to Montoya he couldn't think straight; his animosity towards her was not a secret to Harvey (nor to the whole Police Station) and it was probably because of this that after hearing such a statement, his partner decided to explain him the situation, instead of downright laughing on his face.

“Yeah, because he killed Don Falcone!” Harvey said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world; and maybe, it was. “ _Don Falcone,_ Jim! It doesn't matter if he was your snitch, or mine or anyone's. We can't let him go after that.” He told him, shaking his head. At hearing this, Jim faltered, seeming disconcerted; he was, probably, realizing that he couldn't talk his way out of this. He needed more than words if he wanted to get Cobblepot out of this one.

“… I want to talk to him.” Jim said dryly, scratching his forehead. He casted a look over Harvey's shoulders, to stare at the closed door of the interrogation room. This made Harvey frown again. He looked straight at him for a few seconds, then at the interrogation room, and then at Jim again.

“Why?” He asked, finally letting go of his paperwork and putting it aside. He had, apparently, realized that until Jim got to solve his problems, or at least appease his worries, he was not going to get any of his work done, so he decided to stop pushing the matter. He could get Alvarez to do it for him later; the guy owned him a favor, anyway.

“Just take me where he is!” Jim repeated, practically screaming.

Harvey lifted his arms in the air, as if trying to appease him, and started to mutter curses under his breath. “Alright, alright. Jesus, calm down.” He said in an even voice, standing from his seat and taking off his glasses. “There's enough shouts in here, already.” He stood from his chair, stretching his muscles as he started to walk, and after a few moments of staring Jim followed suit.

When Harvey started to make comments about him not having to worry about it, and how much the brat deserved it anyway, Jim pursed his lips in distaste, but his mouth remained tightly shut. He knew all of this to be true, and that probably this wasn't worth it, but he and Cobblepot had a deal, and he couldn't break it now just because for once things weren't on his favor. Cobblepot had made his part, Jim remained himself, and now it was his duty to pay him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess who's back after almost a month of absence? I know, this took way too long, but on my defense, I've been awfully busy lately :P
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I promise the next ones would come sonner! :D


	3. you know there is (nothing like family)

When Barbara woke up that morning, Jim was gone. It didn't surprise her, really, to find his side of the bed empty. Lately, he preferred to spend the night in the hard looking couch of the living room than sleep in a warm bed beside her. She had pretended she didn't care, only because he had told her that it wasn't her fault. Ever since that horrible afternoon in Don Falcone's house, things between them had grown tense; Jim had become a nutshell for her ever since he joined the GCPD (or perhaps, she had become a nutshell for Jim; Barbara couldn't tell anymore) and in these last few weeks things had only gotten worse. They didn't fight, and they didn't scream at each other; the problem was, Barbara mused while she made her way to the kitchen still wearing her sleeping clothes, was that they never talked either. Jim wouldn’t speak to her, and out of spite, she would not speak to him either.

When she came out to the living room and realized that Jim had left the apartment altogether, not even leaving a note behind, Barbara tried not to react. She took a deep breath, feeling how a tight knot appeared in her throat, and let herself fall to the couch where Jim slept every night. It smelled funny, she thought; funny as the covers of her pillows when she didn't change them in a couple of weeks, or when she napped after going out for a run without taking a bath first. She didn't like it. It smelled like old wood and decay. As if something were dying behind the fabric of the couch; rotting away, slowly. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she tried to contain them as best as she could.

 

* * *

 

“So, you think he's innocent?” Allen asked her, moving away from the wall to stand beside her. Montoya, who was looking through the one-way mirror of the interrogation room, took her eyes off Jim Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot, and turned to look at him. Her back was straight and her arms crossed; her thin red lips were pursed in distaste.

 “…I'm not sure.” She said, absently chewing her lower lip. “He's a criminal and a liar, I know that; but Cobblepot had no reason to kill Falcone. And even if he did, he wouldn't have killed him in front of his house, in a party full of witnesses. He's smarter than that…” As she talked, Montoya's eyes were fixed in the interrogation room. Oswald was playing his pity act again, if those watery eyes and trembling lips were anything to go by, and Detective Gordon seemed to be falling for it. She almost felt sorry for him, but as soon as the feeling began to creep on her Montoya did her best to send it away. If you are stupid enough to fall for Oswald Cobblepot's fake tears, she thought, you don't deserve any pity.

Suddenly, Montoya was reminded of the night before, and how Oswald's sickly pale face had contorted with despair at the sight of the police patrol. He had been holding a gun, aiming it at _Fish_ Mooney's face, when they found him; but they never saw him actually shooting it. Perhaps, if they looked inside the gun barrel, they would find out it had never been fired? If they compared the bullets of Cobblepot's gun and the ones extracted from Falcone's chest, would they match? But if he hadn't pulled the trigger, then who did it? Maroni? Mooney? Someone else? There were too many questions, and Montoya couldn't answer any of them.

“Perhaps Maroni sent him.” Allen said, derailing the young detective's train of thought. Montoya turned around to look at him, frowning, and Allen shrugged lazily. “Well, after Mario Pepper's fiasco, he joined Maroni's crew. That is no secret.” He said, not with the voice of man with a solid and strong belief, but with the one of a man making a suggestion. Montoya took a moment to consider the new theory.

“No, that makes no sense.” She said, rubbing her thumb against her dry lower lip. “If Maroni wanted Falcone dead, he would have sent a professional. Cobblepot might be clever, but he is no executioner material…” Montoya pointed at the one-way mirror, then, and they both saw how Cobblepot took hold of Detective Gordon's hand, begging for him to believe his version of the facts. Jim barely reacted, as if he was used to it.

Something in the scene (in Oswald's trembling lips and watery red eyes, and in Detective Gordon's stoic features) made Montoya's stomach stir unpleasantly. She was used to see the _Penguin_ worming his way through life like this; using his doubtful eyes and cracking voice to inspire compassion in people, and later use that raw feeling of mercifulness to his advantage. But even after so long, she still found it disturbing.

When Detective Gordon entered the interrogation room, he had been relatively calm. Montoya could feel his silent reproach, and guessed that the young man hadn't been very pleased when he heard that Major Crimes had arrested his inside-man, but it was nothing that they couldn't handle. Jim had arrested a lot of people that were supposedly protected by the program, not caring how that could affect other detectives' cases, so she decided that this was a fair outcome. 

At the beginning, he had listened silently to Oswald's version of the facts, ignoring the wailing, crying and incessant trembling of the man in question. He had been calm, stoic and professional, and for a while Montoya actually thought that nothing wrong would come out of the meeting. As time passed, however, he started to look exasperated, and then angry. When his patience began to run thin he snapped, standing up from his chair to turn his back on Cobblepot. For quite a while, he only stood there, ignoring the begging of his inside-man and sullenly facing the closed door. As she watched how the _Penguin_ tried desperately to gain back the young detective's attention, Montoya wondered what could he possibly had said that pissed off Gordon so much.  

In the end, she found an answer to her question when Jim began to scream, and the words found their way through the one-way mirror and into her ears. _Don't lie to me_ , he said, approaching Cobblepot so fast and with so much fury that for a moment Montoya actually thought he would hit him. He didn't, but he kept screaming for a while, and always keeping up with his act, Cobblepot kept stammering and trembling. Things were only getting calmer now, and after a long discussion they had taken their seats at the table again.

“He'll try to take the case from us, you know?” Allen said, sounding none too pleased. At Montoya's questioning face, he continued, pointing at Jim Gordon's tense figure at the other side of the mirror. “Gordon. He'll want to solve it himself. You know how he is.”

Montoya made a _'tsk'_ sound, already regretting her decision of letting Jim enter the interrogation room to see Oswald. “… Yes, I know.” She muttered grimly. It had been the professional thing to do; Cobblepot had been working with Gordon for a while, and if all the cases the young detective had been so easily resolving during the past weeks were tipped off by him, he had at least gained immunity at court. That wasn't enough to absolve him from this particular crime, but by the laws of the program, he did had the right to speak with Jim. The problem here, Montoya reflected, was not Cobblepot and his need for help, but Gordon's unpredictable reaction to Carmine Falcone's death. Jim was an honest cop (Montoya knew that now) but he was also egocentric, and every time a big fish arrived at the Police Station, he wanted it for himself.

Suddenly reminded of the old Don's demise, Montoya felt how a spark of dread began to build in the button of her belly. The most powerful man of Gotham City was dead, and his followers were now surely tearing each other apart to take his place as boss. The little order that Carmine Falcone had established in this no one's land would soon crumble apart. A war was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. People would die and get hurt, and she would not be able to protect them. It had been a while since Montoya had last felt so useless.

On the other side of the mirror, she saw how Jim clasped hands with Cobblepot. She couldn't hear what they were saying, because at Gordon's request, they had turned off the sound, but something in his expression told her that the detective was making another of those honest-cop-promises that he could rarely fulfill. Cobblepot seemed to be falling for it.

 

* * *

 

“There's a lot of bad blood in this city.” Carla said with a dry voice, massaging her temple with her thumb and index finger. Her glass of champagne was half-empty already, and after so much time sitting behind the old wooden desk of her study, her buttocks were starting to hurt. “Sal Maroni, Illya Vronsky, Mario Sollozo, Erik Goldshmith… anyone could have done it. Anyone.” She leaned against the back of her chair, feeling a chill run down her back when Johnny opened the window and the night air entered the room in a gust of cold wind.

“If the Goldshmith Family did it, you can forget about your vengeance, sweet Carla. They are way too powerful.” Paul Cicero responded, putting down his cigar and letting out a cloud of grey smoke through his nostrils. As soon as he did it, the air of the room became bitter and distasteful, and almost without realizing, Johnny began to cough. Equally displeased, his mother fought not to wrinkle her nose, for she knew that the old business man could take offense.

“Who said anything about Goldshmith?” Nikolai said from the other side of the room. Finally, he stopped the pacing he had started when he first set foot on Carla's study that morning, and turned to look sharply at Cicero. “Why do you only talk about the _Heads,_ as if there was no one else? I'd put my money on Jimmy Saviano at any time!” He practically screamed, pointing an accusing finger at nothing in particular. Immediately sensing the danger that came with such statement, Johnny decided to speak up.

“I wouldn't point my finger towards a member of the Family so easily, Mr. Kozlov. Indiscretion is not good for the business.” He warned, leaning against the frame of the window and casually lighting a cigarette. Nikolai ignored him, as he always did, and continued to babble about treason, stabs in the back and lost values. Johnny new better than to start an argument with Nikolai Kozlov; the most stubborn of his uncle's associates and probably the most stupid. He had never liked much this chatterbox Russian who wanted to be Italian so much that he had even tried to copy the gestures and modulation proper of their country. He was amusing in the best times, and unnerving in the worst ones.

“Where is Victor? Has anyone spoken to him?” Somebody said suddenly, and both Carla and Johnny turned to look at Clyde Sorvino; a young lawyer who had made his way into the Family surprisingly fast thanks to his college degree. He wasn't drinking or smoking, unlike the other men who had arrived at the Falcone Mansion that morning, after hearing of their Don's demise. His ginger hair looked all messy and full of knots, as always, and his black business suit looked far more casual than it should have. No one had commented anything about it, thought; probably out of respect.

“No. Why?” Johnny asked, taking out a chair from the table and sitting beside him.

“Wasn't he supposed to protect Falcone? Where was he when our Don got killed?” Clyde questioned, not looking at Johnny but at the entire room. At hearing this, some of the presents exchanged looks, seeming surprised by the question; others nodded in approval, for they had been thinking the same, and others only shrugged, probably thinking that it was not truly important. Carla Vitti, on her part, shook her head and immediately dismissed such slander on Victor Zsasz's perfect performance. She knew better than to point fingers at this particular man.

“Mr. Zsasz is a hitman, not a bodyguard.” She said instead, standing from her chair and walking towards the table in the center of the room. There, she poured herself more champagne. “He only comes to us when we call.”

“Yeah, because that has proven to be _so useful.”_ Mr. Cicero said, laughing derisively and turning off his cigar on an ashtray. In the dark of the room, the diamond rings that adorned both of his hands seemed to glow more than ever. This man was extremely paranoid when it came to people making fun of him or seeming displeased by his presence, but he had no trouble in messing around with other people or in criticizing things he didn't knew anything about. Johnny had always found him incredibly annoying.

“I'd be more careful with what I say about Victor if I were you, Paul. God help you if he hears you.” Carla said, starting to pace around the room, not unlike Nikolai had been doing moments ago, to try and get rid of the pain in her backside. Either the chair on her study had become incredibly uncomfortable, or she was getting old. Normally the prospect would enrage her, but right then she found the matter of aging surprisingly unimportant. If her death could really come as easily as her brother's had, she'd rather face it old and full of grey hairs than young and full of life. “Don't worry about him. He'll have to appear sooner or later.” She said to Clyde, putting a hand over his right shoulder.

“Are you sure, mother? Things don't look well.” Johnny spit a lonely cloud, letting it hang in the air for quite some time, and tried to relax a little. With everything that had happened the other night, just thinking about Victor Zsasz unsettled him. “He might run away, and offer his services to someone else.” He said, looking at Carla and then at Clyde Sorvino. Things weren't looking good, and as far as he was concerned, his mother and the young lawyer were the only two people he could trust in the Family. He would take advice from no one else.

“No, no.” Carla responded immediately, shaking her head again. She took a long sip from her glass of champagne and moved to stand closer to the window. “Victor Zsasz might be many things, Johnny… but never a traitor.” She said, feeling her voice strangely raw. Outside, the day was slowly transforming into night. The moon loomed over distant hills, illuminating the Mansion and the garden bellow.

 

* * *

 

When Jim arrived to the Police Station that night, everything looked different. The other day, the precinct had been vibrating with energy and movement; all the phones were ringing, everyone was reading or carrying tons of paperwork, and there was yelling and screaming everywhere. All the detectives were working hard and untiringly, and there was not a single soul resting or slacking off. Now, everything was silent. Still. There were no detectives, no phone calls and no paperwork. Jim was alone, and he couldn't figure out why.

The hallway that lead to the file room where Kristen Kringle worked was empty; no nosy cops and no Edward Nygma in sight. The cubicles of all the detectives were empty too, including those owned by Alvárez and Bullock. Captain Essen's office was empty as well. Jim climbed the stairs that lead to his own desk, and found that the small lamp that Harvey needed to read when it was dark and he didn't have his glasses on hadn't been turned off. Its dim yellow light was illuminating the bitten sandwich and the half empty coffee cup that the old detective had left behind. He had parted in a hurry, Jim realized.

Suddenly gripped by fear, the young detective turned around and ran down the stairs, heading towards the small interrogation room where Oswald Cobblepot had been locked up. He had been working enough time in the GCPD to know that an empty precinct in a time like this one was not a good signal. He ran down the hallway as fast as he could, his dark raining coat trailing quickly behind him. In the deep silence, the heavy sound of his footstep sounded like thunder.

It didn't take him long to reach the room. The chair where the policeman who was supposed to protect Cobblepot during the night usually sat was empty. For some reason, the sight made something sink unpleasantly in Jim's low stomach. As he moved closer, his running became increasingly slow, and by the time he reached the door he was only walking; slowly and with trepidation, as a man who knows exactly what awaits him just around the corner. Jim had dealt with dead partners before. Back in the day, when he was still serving in the army, he had seen many of his closest friends die in the trenches; some for heroism, some for fear, and others just for stupidity. Whatever was the reason, he had grieved all of them. Cobblepot wasn't his partner, let alone his friend, but as he slowly opened the door, hearing the unsettling cracking of old wood in the deep silence, Jim wondered if he would grieve for him too.

 

* * *

 

Johnny leaned against the back of his chair, entwining his hands together and placing them over his crossed legs. He was cleanly shaved and well dressed, despite the late hours, and his short brown hair was combed backwards with scented gel. Even in the most distressing times, he was the living image of neatness and professionalism. Tony Zucco, who was sitting in front of him with his legs widely spread, looked by all means like his frumpy antithesis.

“Are you sure you are not lying to me, Tony?” He asked, for he was a suspicious man by nature, and he had already decided that in light of the latest events his trust couldn't be granted easily. “You woud make me very angry, if I found out this is a lie.” He warned, in a deceptively calm voice. The caveat, however, seemed to pass inadvertently for the old business man.

“Come on, kid. Why would I lie about that?” He responded, shrugging lazily and taking a long sip from his glass of champagne. At hearing this, Johnny took a deep breath and placed his elbows on top of his legs, letting his head rest over his entwined hands. For a moment he stayed silent, looking pensive. He might have been considering his options, or many just processing the information he had just received. Either way, Tony knew better than to speak about an disturb him, so he stayed silent as well.

“Well, if I was going to be Don, that's off the table now.” He said, taking a long sip of his drink and frowning a little at the bittersweet flavor. “Everything is a chaos. I'm in no position to take over.” As soon as he heard this, Tony Zucco started to shake his head, as if that had been the stupidest thing he had ever heard. He took the bottle of champagne resting on the coffee table, and got closer to refill Johnny's glass, that was already half empty.

“What are you saying? Of course you can! Who's stopping you?” He said with enthusiasm, smiling widely at the young man. “Look, kid. This business is for men.” He placed a hand on Johnny's shoulder them, shaking him a little. “Strong Italian men, like you and me. What other option we have, but you? Your mommy Carla? Fish Mooney, that old harpy? _No._ ” His upper lip raised in distaste while saying that, as if the mere idea of a women taking Falcone's place was disgusting for him. “You are the one, Johnny. I can feel it in my guts.” He said, replacing his frowning with a big and pleased smile. “And when the time comes, and you are Don, you better remember good old Tony; the first bastard to ever back you up.” He leaned back on his chair again, and raised his glass for a toast. Johnny meet it grudgingly.

“What about Cobblepot?” He asked, after gulping down the first sip and the bitter taste of champagne began to burn in his low stomach. Tony frowned at him, as if he hadn't understood him.

“The Umbrella Boy? What's up with him?” At hearing this Johnny tried not to frown. Surely, Tony had read the newspapers? There was not a single one of them that didn't talk about the scandalous murder in Don Falcone's house and the alleged perpetrators.

“You think he was the one who did it?” He asked, and to his surprise, the old business man actually began to laugh on his face. His plump cheeks became red and swollen, and one or two drops of saliva fell in the young man's hand. Johnny took a deep breath, and tried to let it go.

“Of course not, Johnny.” Tony said, once he had composed himself. An amused smile was still lingering on his face, thought. “Never believe what you read in the newspaper. Journalists know nothing about life.” He warned, pointing a finger at him as he always did whenever he was giving him an advice.

“How are you so sure?” Johnny asked further, because he needed to hear the opinion of someone about this; even if it came from a man that he didn't fully trust. It didn't matter whether he became Don or not. The head of his Family had been killed mercilessly, and giving the circumstances, the duty of avenging his childless uncle fell on his shoulders. He needed to know if this vengeance had to be carried against Cobblepot, or against someone else.

“Come on! An Umbrella Boy wouldn't kill a Don like that! It doesn't make sense!” Tony told him, as if it was a matter of fact. And maybe it was. The old business man got closer to him once again, putting a hand over his right shoulder and pointing a fat tanned finger in front of his face. This time, his voice came out raw and frightening, and completely forgetting the disheveled appearance of his companion, Johnny felt a shiver run down his back. “You listen to me, Johnny. Oswald Cobblepot is a scapegoat and nothing more. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a _fucking traitor._ ”  

 

* * *

 

In the end, Jim's suspicions proved to be wrong. Oswald Cobblepot was safe and sound, and in the moment he stepped into the room he greeted Jim with the same gut twisting candor of always. “Jim! What a wonderful surprise!” He said, standing up from his chair with clumsy enthusiasm. Jim released a breath he didn't knew he was holding, and as annoyed as he was by Oswald's bootlicker attitude, he found he felt strangely relieved. He owned this man quite a few favors, after all, and his sense of duty wouldn't have let him feel at peace with himself if he let him die so easily. Odd as it sounded, he was the closest thing to an ally he had, and Jim knew those were hard to find these days.

He didn't let any of these thoughts rise to the surface, thought. The empty precinct couldn't possibly be a mistake, let alone a coincidence, and Jim knew that if he wanted to keep Cobblepot alive he needed to get him out of the Police Station. “Stop that.” Jim said, cutting off the guy's lousy courtesies at once. He quickly approached the table, ignoring Oswald's confused frown, and taking him by the elbow, he forced him to stand upright. “When was the last time someone came in here?” He asked, trying to determine how long the building had been empty, and just how much time they had to escape.

“You were the last person who crossed that door. No one has come ever since.” Oswald answered, stammering only a little at the sudden closeness. He blinked rapidly, and before speaking again he nervously licked his lips. “I don't mean to be rude, Jim, but _it is_ very late. May I ask what are you doing here?” He said, seeming displeased by the rude greeting; Jim fought not to roll his eyes. He knew Cobblepot to be an annoying little man, and in recent times he had learned to tolerante him.

“There's no one here, Cobblepot. The precinct is empty; there are no guards, no detectives. Even the Captain is gone!” Jim answered, taking him by the arms and raising his voice. Oswald's face twitched visibly, but he didn't do anything to get free of his grip. “Someone threatened them to make them leave. Care to guess who?” _Fish_ Mooney was the name lingering at the tip of Jim's tongue. She had the power to make a move like that, even behind bars. If measures had been taken to avoid it, _Butch_ Gilzean could have easily done it for her. In either case, Cobblepot's life was in danger, and maybe Jim's too. It wouldn't be the first time his job brought him to this point.

“Men are coming here to kill you.” Oswald's face contorted in fear, and Jim had a hard time deciding how much of it was real and how much was a pretense. “We have to leave. _Now_.” He said, finally letting go of the man's shoulders. Cobblepot took a couple of steps backwards, and indignantly rearranged his suit. He did something funny with his mouth, that might or might not have been a protest to Jim's rough treatment, but he didn't complain. The young detective turned around and started to walk towards the door, knowing that more sooner than later Cobblepot would be trailing behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who decided to update after so long? Yeah, me. I know this update took forever and I'm really sorry. I hadn't have the time to writte lately and this chapter just didn't want to come out right. Hope you like it, anyway :)


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